


Over Again

by cumberperson



Series: Surrender [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Rape, cry - Freeform, references to rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 15:44:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumberperson/pseuds/cumberperson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over a month after the original incident, Sherlock confronts John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over Again

**Author's Note:**

> This was honestly only written for a friend. I had no intention of adding a part, so it's unnecessary to read, really. I actually don't like it.

The weeks following John’s rejected marriage proposal were uncomfortable and painful to Sherlock. the younger man had laid down boundaries, telling John not to touch him, not to speak to him unless the level of importance was at least an 8, and most importantly, not to look at him. Despite his firmness in creating the boundaries, he couldn’t bring himself to enforce it; not when John held Sherlock against the wall, far stronger than Sherlock was, and breathing how sorry he was.

Sometimes, Sherlock thought John was being honest. He thought John was really sorry- and that everything that John had done would never happen again. Other times, he saw straight through.

John did a lot of things to try and make up for everything, but it was hard to make up for the things he’d done to his flatmate, especially when it kept piling up.

Sherlock had begun regular injections of cocaine, dying for an out now that his mind palace was soiled by memories of what John had done. Of course, the drugs had him under long enough for John to press his lips to Sherlock’s and take advantage. Sherlock’s memory of those times was often so blurred and tainted by the effects of the alkaloid that he couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t.

When he wasn’t high, he was sleeping or at a crime scene, often forgetting how he arrived.

The worst part to Sherlock was that, while his withdrawal from reality was obvious, nobody seemed to understand that his absence was because of John. Sherlock wasn’t certain if it was because John still acted the same, or if it was because everyone was too unobservant to tell.

He had thought, at a point, that Lestrade had understood, but when Lestrade asked Sherlock about things at home, Sherlock had only changed the subject.

Speaking was a rare thing for Sherlock, now. He only spoke on cases, and only vague deductions, minus the explanation behind each. He knew that everyone was getting fed up with him, and pretty soon he’d have no job and no money.

He’d either die on the streets or overdose on cocaine.

“Sherlock.”

He was pulled out of his trance by John’s voice, but he didn’t turn or respond. There was no reason. He just blinked and closed his eyes.

He lay on the couch, hands together and lips pursed. The injection needles on the table were unused, but there were still several signs of previous injections on his right arm, tiny pinpricks surrounded by slight bruising and, in more recent cases, redness.

When Sherlock said nothing, John stepped closer to the couch, putting a hand on his cheek. “Sherlock.”

The hair on Sherlock’s arms stood up, and he twisted his head away from John’s touch, eyes fluttering open. “What?” he snapped. “I’m thinking.”

“You’re not thinking, you’re brooding.” John said, narrowing his eyes. “Look, I understand that you’re angry, but-”

“Angry, John?” He sat up, looking John in the eye. “I’m not angry. I’m not angry at all.” He stood, putting distance between himself and his flatmate. “I’m furious. And if you tell me to get over it, I-”

John’s jaw locked, and he kept quiet for a moment, willing to hear Sherlock out. It had been three days since Sherlock had asked for a pen, and there had been no other conversation between the two, unless you counted the one-sided murmurings while John held him down in bed, one hand gripping Sherlock’s wrists, the other trying to get him off.

“You’ve been using me, John. You’ve been using me, and you won’t stop.” Sherlock said, not breaking eye contact. “You can get sex from anyone else. Anyone. And yet you chose to take it by force.” He leaned closer to John, as if that made the words more real. “Again and again and again.”

“Sherlock, that’s not what I wanted to talk about.” John said, wetting his lips. This conversation had to go his way, or everything would fall apart again.

“You’ve been getting everything you want lately, John.” Sherlock told him coolly. “You’ve been getting sex, you’ve been getting women-”

“We need money, Sherlock. And you cutting everyone off and ignoring responsibility isn’t going to make a few hundred pounds appear.” John answered. “I can only make so much at the clinic, and it’s not enough to-”

“Not enough to support my recreational activities and pay the bills? How unfortunate it must be to be the only one making money.” Sherlock’s voice dripped with sarcasm. He knew he was being immature. Money was definitely important, and the fact that he was making less than John made him uncomfortable, but his rights to his body had been taken away. He had every right to be angry and stubborn.

“Not enough to do either. Mrs. Hudson likes us, but not enough to lower the rent any more than she already has.” John said, his voice edged with stress. They needed the money.

“Lestrade won’t work with me anymore. Not after what happened last week.” Sherlock had gotten particularly cruel with a witness due to her hyperventilation’s toll on the understandability of her words.

“He’s worked with you this long, Sherlock. You just need to show him that you’re capable of acting human.” John told him, stepping toward the taller man, who only stumbled back.

“Maybe I’m not capable of it.” Sherlock answered. “The money doesn’t matter anymore, John. You’re the only one that eats, really.”

“They’re going to shut off the electricity, Sherlock. They’ve already cut the cable and the wifi.” John looked at Sherlock incredulously, as if the lack of telly or computer was utter hell.

“There’s nothing good on telly, anyway.” Sherlock answered blandly. He’d rather be without telly any day than without security in his own flat.

“That’s not the point, Sherlock! We could have that money if you would get up and work like everyone else!” John’s tone was sharp, but not intending to hurt.

Sherlock just stared at him for a moment. “John, you’re a soldier. You know what it’s like to have to adjust to something traumatic. I can’t just return to work.”

“It’s been a month and a half.” John said irritably. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Apologise. Tell me why. Anything but complain about my not going to work.” Sherlock answered, agitated.

“I’ve apologised, Sherlock. I’m sorry. I am.” John said, as if that justified anything at all.

“Now tell me why you’d do it.” Sherlock said, grinding his teeth. He really did want to hear a reason. In the one and a half months, John had refused to speak of it, and there was no opportunity to find out John’s motives.

John didn’t answer. He seemed to be searching for an answer, himself, and that only fuelled Sherlock’s outrage.

Sherlock just waited, though. He wasn’t going to be the first to break, not in this situation. John had better come up with something, he thought, or neither of them would ever speak.

After a silence that was far too long and too uncomfortable, Sherlock shook his head, his hands trembling.

John tried to cover himself. “Sherlock, nothing is going to justify it, so why are you-”

“Enough.” Sherlock interrupted. “All you had to do was ask, John.”

It was embarrassing to Sherlock, having been reduced from a genius to something so small- a child begging for the respect he knew he’d never get from John, not now that he’d been walked all over. The darkest part of it all was that Sherlock couldn’t kick John out for good without feeling as lonely and lost as he had all the years before they’d met.

He was trapped, and, judging by the hot breath on his mouth and the calloused fingers toying with Sherlock’s waistband, John had no intention of releasing him.


End file.
